My Old Man met Johnny Smith during an act of of immeasurable kindness. We were finally able to relocate back to Henry’s hometown of Canton, Georgia, in the early 1980s. With our few worldly possessions moved, it was time to fly the Luscombe 8A to her new home.

I drove Henry to the grass field a couple of hours west of our new home where she was based, saw him off and started the drive back to 47A, Cherokee County Airport, now CNI. About an hour into the drive, I was hoping he and Lucy were safely on the ground. Rain was pouring, lightning was cracking and thunder was booming. It was so bad I finally pulled off the road to wait for the storm to pass.

At Cherokee, Johnny had come by to make sure his Champ was properly secured against the impending storm when he saw the little Luscombe land just ahead of the deluge. He rushed to help the pilot tie her down, and when he grabbed the wing strut, lightning popped and he was knocked to the ground. The Old Man was jolted as well.

In my experience, airports fall into two categories. There are those that are all business, a sterile environment where pilots and passengers pass through for a time, leaving none of themselves or their experiences behind. These are efficient patches of asphalt that are necessary in modern times, and it is not the function or responsibility of these facilities to inspire.

Then there are the other places, those half-forgotten patches of grass or concrete where a middle-aged housewife with gray hair or a gangly teenaged boy whose arms have not quite come to terms with his legs are encouraged to follow a desire to become one with the sky.

It’s that time of year when I get to whine. Weather wise, December through March is typically dreary, often with gray skies and cold temperatures. We even have a snow shower or two here in north Georgia that gets the news media all in a tizzy. However, this year has been exceptionally warm, although we’ve had our share of dreary wet days.

I can get through the winter just fine if I get a day now and then for a smooth flight in Lester. It’s just as well that winter often limits my good VFR flying days, because this is also the time of year when our bank account is stretched to the limit.